


chasing sunlight

by inamamagic



Category: All For One (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Written during S2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 22:02:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14066532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamamagic/pseuds/inamamagic
Summary: An Aballon Quidditch AU that no one asked for.Henry and Portia are from rival teams, but unlike the rest of their teammates, they don’t totally want to murder each other. This leads to some stuff.(This story is also known as, I yanked the cast away and tossed them into Europe. Let us now take a journey of a collective suspension of disbelief)





	chasing sunlight

** _One_ **

The first time something happens, it’s really completely unexpected. 

Really, it was.

It’s just that they keep bumping into each other all the time as they walk out of their changing rooms after a match (but sometimes, Henry ‘bumps’ into Portia when he’s not even playing that day, so there’s that). All they ever want to do is to be polite and say ‘hello’ and ‘how are you' like any civil person would do, despite the long and bloody rivalry between the Appleby Arrows and the Wimbourne Wasps. 

And of course, it’s respectful to wish each other good luck. And also to say ‘good game’ afterwards. 

And then, ‘we should go celebrate your victory. Perhaps back at mine?’ 

(Henry says this last bit, hoping, brown eyes fixed on Portia’s green ones, hoping so hard _, oh Merlin please_ …)

It’s just that they really can’t keep their eyes off each other, even though their teams are sworn enemies. When Portia smiles, it makes Henry’s stomach swoop in the exact same way it does when he dives to catch the Quaffle. When Henry laughs it makes Portia’s heart soar, and it’s been getting a little inconvenient because sometimes this happens while they’re in midair. 

The last time, Portia had been in the centre of the Hawkshead Attacking Formation with Anne and Dorothy on either side, and Henry had just flown out of bloody nowhere and smiled and fucking _winked_ —

Portia had dropped the Quaffle almost immediately.

So them meeting up is just to get to know each other a little better. To calm their nerves around each other (it’s so important that they’re calm around each other). Just so it stops affecting their performance on the pitch so much. It’s _just_ tea and biscuits. That’s perfectly harmless, right?

_Right?_

Portia has a few crumbs on the side of her mouth and Henry has to move to brush them off because that’s good manners. 

Except, he doesn’t take his hand off Portia’s face. He just leans closer instead. Portia does too.

That first kiss feels almost better than flying.

 

** _Two_ **

They could’ve carried on, but Alex moves in with Henry about two days after their little tea. She’s just gone through something deeply personal and horrible involving a ghost from her past that Henry is more than happy to hex, but for Alex, he keeps his wand to himself. 

Then Treville decides to come back and live with the both of them because there’s plenty of room in the house and she’s sick of living alone. It’s her old house actually, but she’d left it for Henry a year ago when she’d moved into a fancy new place.

Since Portia’s currently living in a flat with Dorothy, there isn’t anywhere safe they can meet up to do anything.

Not that they’re actually doing anything at all. Even though they’d love to. They’d really really love to. 

Oh Merlin what they wouldn’t give to bang.

They haven’t exactly seen each other out of their robes because they don’t share the same changing rooms. But when their minds wander (even though they try really hard not to let them wander), they can’t help but think about it. After all, they’re both hot-blooded adults with some very pressing needs. Needs that they just want each other to fulfil.

Just before the League Cup finals (which both their teams have gotten into), Portia slips Henry a piece of parchment with her address on it, and the words _write to me_ scribbled on the back.

So Henry writes. For two whole weeks, he and Portia write letters to each other, too nervous to meet anywhere, even in a dark pub or any of the wizarding clubs, because they’re afraid someone (read: a Witch Weekly reporter) will spot them and it will all go to shit. Henry knows his teammates will give him hell for it, especially Treville, who hates Anne the captain of the Arrows with a burning passion.

When Portia proposes the solution, it’s so simple that Henry slaps himself for not thinking of it sooner. But, as Portia said, it’s really not something a pureblood such as himself would’ve even thought of anyway. 

They meet at a Muggle pub the next evening.

 

** _Three_ **

Henry disables the anti-Apparition Charm on the house so that Portia can Apparate directly into his bedroom. The resounding _crack_ is perhaps the loudest sound he has ever heard in his life.

There are footsteps outside the corridor almost immediately. Henry motions for Portia to hide in the wardrobe. He tries to recast the spell again, but in his panicked state, this doesn’t work as well as he hopes. It’s embarrassing. Charms had been one of his specialties at Hogwarts, along with Transfiguration (and Quidditch of course, but that went without saying).

On his third failed attempt, he swears. Treville knocks on the door.

“Henry? Is everything alright? I thought I heard someone Apparate inside.”

Henry swears again. He tosses his wand onto the bed and musses up his hair, attempting (poorly he thinks) to look as sleepy as possible before trudging towards the door and opening it.

“Hmm?” he says, in what he hopes is a good approximation of a sleepy voice. Treville narrows her eyes.

“Did I catch you while you were sleeping?” she asks. Henry nods. Treville’s gaze grows sharp. Her eyes dart around the room, taking in the lit candles and the perfectly made bed, and Henry wishes he hadn’t opened the door so wide.

“Did you want something?”

“It sounded like somebody Apparated in there,” says Treville looking back at him. Her eyes bore into Henry’s and he rubs them so he doesn’t have to look at her. “Just wanted to check on you to see if you were safe.”

“It’s all good,” says Henry. “Night Jeanne.”

He closes the door over her suspicious face. Walking back to the bed, he takes his wand and locks the door, grimacing as he does. He knows Treville will check to see if the charm is up and recast it as soon as she realises.

Portia steps out of the wardrobe looking amused. Her cheeks are flushed pink. Henry’s heart leaps.

“I should probably just Disillusion myself the next time I come over,” she says. “So you don’t have to remove the anti-Apparition charm every time, it’s kind of a chore to recast. That way you can let me in through the front door.”

Henry blinks. “You’re a Charms girl?”

“Of course,” says Portia, smiling till her nose crinkles. “It was my best subject.” Henry grins and walks towards her.

“Should’ve known,” he says. “You charmed your way right into my life.” Portia laughs and puts her arms around his waist. 

“You are so silly,” she says, her green eyes shining. Henry kisses her softly.

“As long as you’re laughing,” he says.

 

** _Four_ **

They start sleeping together regularly. Portia always Apparates a block away from the house where Henry is waiting to walk her inside. She always arrives Disillusioned, and Henry marvels at the quality of the charm - he can’t barely make out the shimmer in the air and can’t really tell where Portia is until she takes his hand.

They’re glad that it’s off-season and they’re both taking time away from training. The official excuse is that they’re tired and they want some time off, but really they’re just spending every spare moment together, to the point where Portia sometimes stays over for days on end.

Treville’s got her own stuff to do, and Alex has started to go out a little more, so neither one of them get too suspicious when Henry stops leaving his room, but they both know their luck is bound to run out soon. Dorothy’s starting to ask questions, and even Anne’s been more than a little curious.

They decide to go away together for a little while. The Muggle way, so no one will notice. Portia handles everything; she’s familiar with the process because her mother’s a Muggle and wasn’t brought up completely isolated from their world. Henry just goes along with it all, a little surprised that Muggles manage to do so much with no magic at all, but also annoyed at how complicated it is to take a plane to Portugal instead of just strapping their trunks to their brooms and flying there themselves. There are just so many finicky little things you have to do, and all of it is so _silly_.

And _why_ can’t you just take your trunks on the plane?

“It’s weird,” says Portia, pushing the bright red suitcase towards Henry, who doesn’t touch it. “Muggles use these.”

Henry insists that he pay for their tickets after Portia explains the whole concept of planes and classes to him, because there is no way he’s gonna to sit in a cramped little seat in economy for two and a half hours with shitty food and no legroom. 

Portia points out that flying there by broom would take a _lot_ longer and would be a lot more uncomfortable too, because there’s really no fun in freezing to your broomstick for two days, even when the company is good. Henry argues that at least they’d be out in the fresh air instead of stuck in a little chair the whole time.

They stop bickering when they enter the first class cabin. Portia settles in, looking almost irritated at how comfortable she is. Henry can’t stop smirking at this. Portia spots this and scowls.

“You are such a Slytherin,” she snaps. 

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t like me any other way babe,” whispers Henry, blowing her a kiss. Portia rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch anyway.

After take off, Henry settles down with his champagne and reclines his seat, thinking that maybe flying in a plane is one of those Muggle things he could definitely get used to.

 

** _Five_ **

Their stay in Portugal is wonderful.

The trip lasts two weeks, and they spend each and every one of those fourteen days fucking - or _making love,_ as Henry insists on calling it, but Portia says they should call a spade a spade. The first time she makes this declaration, Henry laughs. He hadn’t expected Portia to feel that way. She’s always so much sweeter and kinder, a balm to his brashness.

There’s no real rhyme or rhythm to their routine over the fortnight. Wake up? Have sex. Go out shopping? Dressing room sex. Go out clubbing? Well, it isn’t a real clandestine affair unless you’ve done it in a club bathroom.

They just can’t keep their hands off each other.

They stick to heavily Muggle areas, although they do come across the occasional witch or wizard on holiday (dressed so oddly that they attract stares from miles away). Henry’s glad that Portia’s with him, because there’s no way he would’ve known the right clothes to wear. Most of his beach vacations have been on wizard-only beaches, where people went in the nude or sat around in thin robes.

They hold hands _all_ the time, laughing wherever they go, and Henry keeps pulling Portia close to kiss her because they can do that now. Snog happily in public without a care in the world, without having to worry about reporters following them around, or their teammates spotting them, or worse, _fans_ spotting them and doing Merlin knows what.

As the end of their trip approaches, Henry begins to feel wrung out by sadness. Portia feels the same. On the night before their flight back to London, they stand on the balcony of their hotel room. The moon glimmers over the waves and Henry takes a deep breath of salty air, letting it ease his mind. He thinks he’ll always associate beaches with Portia now.

Portia takes his hand and squeezes it. “So. How’s your Muggle experience been?” she asks.

“Fantastic,” says Henry. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” Portia turns her face towards him. Her green eyes shine in the moonlight.

“I’ll miss you when we go back,” she whispers. Henry leans in to kiss her.

“I’ll miss you too,” he says, stroking her smooth cheek. “More than you know.” He holds her close, burying his face in her soft red hair. “Why can’t we just say fuck it and date openly?” he mumbles.

“You know why,” says Portia. “They’d probably bench us for a season. Or kick us off the team.”

“Those are very unfair grounds,” says Henry, pulling away to look at her. Portia chuckles but her eyes are sad.

“Yeah,” she says. “But you know it’s affected our performance.”

Henry can’t deny this. Both of them know that the reason why the Wasps lost the League Cup this year is because he’d fumbled the Quaffle at the last minute when Portia had flown past and he’d gotten momentarily distracted by the way her hair fluttered in the wind. 

It’s been something he hasn’t been able to get over. He’s a professional after all, and he can’t believe that it had been so easy for him to lose control like that. Even Portia’s annoyed with herself for all her own missteps on the pitch that had cost the Arrows a fair few chances of scoring.

They both know it’s highly unlikely to happen now that they’re seeing each other. They know each other too well to get flustered on the pitch now.

That doesn’t mean their teammates will see it that way. The Wasps and the Arrows aren’t gonna break their centuries long rivalry over something as trivial as two of their Chasers falling for each other.

Landing in London is the worst the both of them have felt in a long while.

 

** _Six_ **

They still meet up, but it’s never the same anymore, because they’ve tasted what could’ve been and it lingers. 

Even so, they still try. Most nights, they stay up talking for hours, about everything under the sun and stars. Henry learns that Portia’s father wanted her to work at the Ministry and hadn’t approved of her playing Quidditch till she’d made it onto the Appleby Arrows. Portia learns that Henry actually creates and sells security charms on the side, something that the team publicists work very hard to keep under wraps because some of his charms have been used by the wrong people.

They learn other things too. Like how Henry bites his nails bloody before a match, and how Portia’s brow furrows when she’s agitated. How Henry loves annoying other people for the sole pleasure of riling them up. How Portia really hates Herbology but enjoys Muggle gardening.

The more they learn, the farther they fall.

One evening after Portia’s been safely escorted inside, she turns to Henry, looking nervous.

“I got an owl this morning,” she says. “It, uh… well…” She bites her lip and reaches into her pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment. Dread creeps over every inch of Henry’s skin. Portia hands him the letter, and he takes it with shaking hands. The wax seal is cut through, but Henry recognises the coat of arms of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. 

He opens the letter. “Dear Ms Vallon,” he reads. “We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to play for _the reserve team for England?_ ”

He looks up at Portia, who looks apprehensive. All of Henry’s dread is immediately replaced by happiness so pure and vast that he feels like he might explode. He whoops and leaps towards Portia, throwing his arms around her.

“Oof! Henry —”

“Babe, this is _amazing_! We should go out somewhere to celebrate - but in Muggle London of course.” Henry pulls away from her and strokes her hair, kissing her cheek. “Or we can celebrate in here,” he whispers, flicking his tongue over Portia’s earlobe, “if you catch my drift.”

Portia pulls away, still looking apprehensive. “I start training next week,” she says. “So I won’t really get to see you very much for a while.”

“Oh,” says Henry. “How long is a while?”

Portia gestures at the letter again and Henry reads the rest of it, jaw dropping when he reaches the end.

“ _You’re going to be in Scotland for three months?_ ”

“I’ll write,” starts Portia, but she’s cut off by a knock on the door.

She hops into the wardrobe. Henry gets the door, but makes sure not to yank it open all the way.

Treville’s standing outside the door with a letter between her fingers. “This just came for you,” says Treville, holding it out. Henry takes it. The seal of the Department of Magical Games and Sports is on this too. His eyes widen, and he moves to close the door, but Treville sticks her hand through the gap.

“Wait,” she says. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Yes,” says Henry. “Inside? In private?”

Treville smirks. “I want to see if that letter is what I think it is, because I’ve been hearing things all season, and I want to tell the team.”

Henry purses his lips and pulls his wand out of his robes. Opening the seal, he skims the letter. It has the exact same text as Portia’s, except for the part that says _Mr Henry Abascale_ on it.

He holds it out to Treville, whose dark eyes skim over it so fast that Henry wonders if she’s even actually reading it. With a triumphant look, she gives him back the letter.

“I’ll Floo the others,” she says. Something akin to pride flashes over her face. “Well done Henry.”

“Thanks,” says Henry with a smile. Treville strides away, and he shuts the door, heart racing.

Portia peeks out of the wardrobe. “Everything okay?”

Henry holds up the letter. “Guess I’ll be joining you in Scotland,” he says.

 

** _Seven_ **

Before they start training, everything goes great. Both their teams are ecstatic, and both of them are too. Not just because this is the highlight of their professional lives, but also because they’ll get to spend three months in the same place - on the same team! 

They can actually be friendly in public now!

The reserve team has been chosen almost from scratch (save for one Chaser and the Keeper). This rarely happens, but most of the team had quit after the previous World Cup, and no one else they hired seemed to stick around. People had started saying it was cursed.

For the first two weeks, they run drills, getting to know each other better and figuring out how best to work together. 

Portia and Henry get to know the third Chaser, Connie, a Kenmare Kestral who was recruited the previous year (much to the chagrin of the Irish national team who’d been hoping to nab her). Portia’s never interacted with her before, but Henry had played on the Slytherin Quidditch team with her for a few years. She’s easy to work with and very efficient, which makes everything lovely.

Then, they start actually playing. 

And Henry and Portia find, to their utter horror, that they absolutely _cannot_ play together.

Both of them keep expecting the other two to defer to their commands, because that’s how they play on their own teams. They’re the Chasers in charge, they’re the ones that lead all the manoeuvres and figure out strategy, but this isn’t happening anymore, and it’s confusing and difficult.

They’re used to being the best on their teams, especially Henry, who’d fought tooth and nail to get where he was. Having such stiff competition isn’t something that either one of them particularly _want_ to get used to.

This makes things worse off the pitch too. They argue more, and not the usual friendly bickering either. It keeps devolving into shouting matches all over the place, all the time. Henry hadn’t thought Portia would’ve had such a temper, but she’s really surprised him.

They start saying things that aren’t necessarily Quidditch-related too, inching closer and closer to a line that shouldn’t be crossed. After each practice session proves to be a bigger disaster than the last, they can’t help but pin the blame on each other, refusing to consider that their own stubbornness isn’t helping things at all.

The sex is always angry now. Always always angry. It’s _good_ sex, but it leaves the both of them feeling like utter crap afterwards. Portia never stays in Henry’s bed anymore, always leaping out like she’ll be cursed if she stays in it for too long.

And Henry lets her go, every time.

 

** _Eight_ **

After the _fourteenth_ terrible training session, during which their coach threatens them with removal, Connie storms into the changing room and slams the door shut with her wand, locking it behind her. Portia and Henry are in the middle of yet another argument but stop when this happens.

Connie glares at the both of them, her blue eyes furious, face pale with anger, her hair practically standing on end. Neither one of them have ever seen her angry, so this is jarring, to say the least.

“Please sit,” says Connie, her voice quiet and shaking. Portia and Henry drop to the bench immediately. Connie takes a deep breath and closes her eyes before exhaling.

“Now the two of you will listen to me,” she says, fists clenched, a muscle twitching in her jaw. “You’re both good Chasers. Brilliant, actually, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Both of you constantly beat each other out for top scorers in the League. But none of that counts for _shite_ if you keep fucking up on the pitch!”

She screams the last bit and Portia gasps. Henry just glares into the distance.

“You know you’re going to get kicked off if this keeps on,” says Connie.

“I dunno,” mutters Henry, shrugging his shoulders and looking a bit peeved. “Maybe the team’s really cursed.”

“It’s not true!” Connie shouts. “That’s just a stupid excuse people keep bringing up to cover up the fact that England’s been absolute crap for a decade now. We lost the 1994 World Cup semis three-ninety to ten, and we haven’t even qualified since!”

She takes another deep breath and exhales slowly.

“The both of you need to forget whatever bloody rivalry that’s there between the Wasps and the Arrows. That’s irrelevant now. You need to accept that you’re on each other’s team.”

Neither Henry nor Portia say anything for a bit. Connie continues to glare at them.

“I didn’t fight to have the both of you picked for the team all year for no reason,” she says. “So you’d better do me the favour of growing the fuck up and getting over yourselves.”

“I have a question,” says Henry leaning forward, and Portia gives him a horrified glance, because this is the exact look he gets on his face when he wants to annoy someone.

“What?” snaps Connie.

“Why didn’t you play for Ireland?”

Connie looks furious for a second. Portia covers her face in her hands, peeking through her fingers. No one says anything for a moment.

“It wasn’t a challenge,” says Connie finally. “Ireland’s already good. What’s the point of playing for a good team? There’s nowhere to go from there. You pick good players for a shite team, and you get to take credit for their comeback.”

Henry smirks. “That’s very Slytherin of you.”

“Well it would be a shame if it wasn’t,” says Connie.

Henry’s smirk widens, and Portia rolls her eyes. Why is she always the only Hufflepuff in a room at any given time?

“So?” says Connie. “Are we going to cooperate?”

Henry and Portia look at each other, and then back at the Chaser that they both know they’ll be deferring to, probably for the rest of their careers.

“Yes,” they say in unison.

 

** _Nine_ **

Even when things get better on the pitch, they don’t really get back to normal off it.

Sex for them is sort of perfunctory now. It feels like the only reason why they’re still sticking around, but it’s colder, less pleasurable, and they both start having trouble climaxing at all.

So they stop. Best to keep things professional, says Portia, and Henry agrees.

Their attitude on the pitch becomes mechanical. Mechanically _efficient_ , but mechanical. This is both good and bad - good because efficiency is exactly what England needs right now (and there’s talk of replacing the current Chasers with Connie, Henry, and Portia), but bad because _mechanical_ means they’re not being creative. They’re not being innovative. They’re just doing what they need to do, and this doesn’t bode well in situations where they need to think fast.

Still, Portia and Henry are getting better at trusting each other on the pitch, but progress is still a little too slow. It’s hard to remove years of conditioning, all those days of training to see each other as the enemy. Henry still feels like passing the Quaffle to Portia means his brain is sending him the wrong signals just because he’s still completely mad for her. And Portia’s instincts keep telling her to block Henry whenever he’s got the Quaffle in her hands, even though there’s a part of her that says that she’s only doing that to find a way to get closer to him again. She just ends up hovering in midair instead.

Early one morning, Connie drags their tired and aching bodies onto the pitch. Henry and Portia shiver in the dark and rub their eyes, clutching their broomsticks with their free hands.

“I want you two up there with the Quaffle,” says Connie. “I will fly around you and jinx you, and you will need to dodge them and score. I need to see teamwork.”

Henry and Portia feel like they’ve been slapped awake.

“But Connie,” says Portia, finding her voice first. “Maybe something less _dangerous_? Like sparks, or jets of light?”

Connie gives them a wry smile. “That’s not really going to give you any incentive, is it?”

As horrendous as this is, they know she’s right. They kick off, cold dread filling their stomachs, everything sharper and clearer in their fear. Connie tosses the Quaffle to Portia and blows her whistle. Portia barely sees the first jinx coming till it’s inches from her face, but she’s glad Connie’s chosen a spell that emits such a bright colour, because she’s just able to move out of the way and pass the Quaffle to Henry. Connie shoots another jinx and Henry passes it back to Portia, who zooms towards the goalposts. 

It’s a testament to their skill that they manage to dodge almost every spell, even though the tails of their brooms are a little worse for wear by the time they’re done. Aside from some singed hair (Henry), a bruised cheek (Portia) and lots of rips on their robes, they end up mostly uninjured by the time the sun is up. They’ve scored about eighty goals between them, but they’ve also lost count of who scored what, because for the first time, they were focused on making sure they got each other to the goalposts safely. 

Connie’s shaking her head at the both of them when they touch down. Henry looks annoyed.

“What?” he exclaims. “We were good!”

“Yeah,” says Connie. “But will you be if someone’s not jinxing the living daylights out of you?”

Portia just sighs and casts a quick _Reparo_ on her broom. Henry doesn’t say anything.

 

** _Ten_ **

Things continue to get better on the pitch. Exponentially better. Everyone’s starting to notice.

Off the pitch however, is a different story. Aside from discussing strategy with Connie and the occasional “excuse me,” in the changing rooms, Henry and Portia are barely speaking to each other. 

It’s bullshit. This is all bullshit. 

Henry wants to break the silence so much, but he won’t do it, because if Portia won’t speak to him, then he won’t either. It’s stupid to be the first one to give in. Only fools do that.

Portia too, doesn’t want to talk if Henry won’t. Henry’s the one that made the first move when they got together, so he should be the one to break the silence. Even though Portia’s the one that brought up breaking things off anyway.

Besides, it’s not like they were even dating. It was just fucking. Nothing else.

England has a friendly with Portugal coming up. Henry and Portia don’t miss the irony. If things hadn’t gone so badly (and honestly, it’s a _silly_ reason, it’s just their stupid pride, their complete refusal to admit that they want each other), they would’ve been able to enjoy this.

Connie, Henry, and Portia, are selected to play Chaser for the main team by the time the match rolls around, which means that Henry and Portia don’t really end up having the time to dwell on their feelings. It’s a good thing, because they’re growing more and more miserable every day.

Both the Arrows and the Wasps show up to watch the match, uniting (temporarily) for a common cause for the first time in centuries, and England defeats Portugal 380 to 200. It’s the first victory for England in any match in a long while, and the celebrations are massive. Henry’s soon surrounded by hoards of fans and admirers, and Portia slips away to the side.

The Portuguese team stays behind to celebrate, and after three glasses of Firewhiskey, Portia starts to find their Seeker Eva Oliveira quite a bit more interesting than she did half an hour ago. 

She sidles up to her to chat, pleased when Eva returns her attentions, barely noticing when Henry extricates himself from the throng of people to find her and talk to her. By the time he reaches them, Eva’s already kissing Portia, who is realising, a little belatedly, that she only wants to kiss Henry. All she notices are the differences between them; how Eva doesn’t hold her hip and tug her close, and how she doesn’t cup her face in her hand so gently like she’s holding something fragile, and how she doesn’t whisper innuendos a mile a minute, making Portia laugh as they kiss.

She notices that her stomach doesn’t swoop, her skin doesn’t tingle, and her heart definitely doesn’t feel _anything_ at all. There’s no sensation whatsoever. Just numbness.

When they break away, Henry is long gone, and Portia has no idea that he was ever there at all.

She feels sick to her stomach. The Firewhiskeys come right back up when she steps outside the pub and throws up on the street.

 

** _Eleven_ **

Henry realises, somewhat bitterly, that his original plot to ‘get to know Portia better so he could calm his nerves’ has actually worked. Because even though he feels a sick clenching in his stomach whenever he sees Portia nowadays, this doesn’t affect their play at all. 

Now that they’re officially on Team England, the stakes are much higher, so they can’t afford to screw up (or screw around with each other). They’ve both back from Scotland now and living in their own homes again, but every time Henry turns over in his bed, all he can feel is the cold absence of Portia beside him.

He keeps thinking about the way he’d seen her with Eva, heart clenching whenever he thinks about how easily she’d moved on. Like nothing they’d done had mattered. Like he was just another notch on a broomstick.

The feeling alternates between sickening rage and mind-numbing heartbreak unlike anything he’s felt before. His palms sweat and he grows unusually antsy whenever he’s around her, often gripping his broom handle tighter than necessarily to keep himself from exploding whenever they’re flying. The worst of it is that Henry has no idea how she feels. She doesn’t let it show on her face, she just smiles politely as though nothing’s wrong and carries on as usual.

He decides to go on a date with someone Portia _really_ hates (and this is quite a feat because Portia likes almost everyone). The new Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, Gina Blackthorne. 

At the back of his mind, he wonders if he’s done this because Gina’s physique reminds him a little bit of Portia’s. Curvy, red haired, with pretty green eyes and a nose that crinkles when she smiles.

The similarities end there though. Gina doesn’t take charge in the bedroom like Portia does. She doesn’t make Henry feel desired the way Portia does, and she doesn’t make him feel safe the way Portia does.

So really there’s nothing about Gina that’s like Portia at all. 

At the end of the night, Henry rolls over in bed feeling a little like he’s done something wrong.

He can’t bring herself to go out with Gina on a second date, even though they’re all over _Witch Weekly_ the next morning. His teammates on the English team all congratulate him, but Portia just gives him a tight lipped smile and the silent treatment. 

They have a friendly with Belgium the following week, but this time they’re the ones travelling there. Henry wishes he was on a plane because the broom ride is freezing cold, achingly uncomfortable and tiring. He’s ready to fall asleep when they land. Once they reach the northwestern coast of France, they take a bunch of Portkeys, hopping from one city to the other till they reach Brussels. 

Henry loathes Portkeys. They make him nauseous. Just like the Floo Network.

The English team wins the game, but it’s an empty victory for Henry and Portia, who only want to share it with each other but are too afraid to say so.

 

** _Twelve_ **

The European Cup qualifiers begin, and Henry and Portia are back playing for the Wasps and the Arrows respectively. It feels strange to be back. It feels like they’re home, but it also doesn’t entirely feel like they belong.

Connie comes down to wish them both luck. She’ll be playing against them with the Kestrals in another round of qualifiers, depending on how their teams do. She gives them an odd stare, as though she knows what’s wrong, but says nothing that could confirm or deny this.

Then follows the dirtiest game of Quidditch that Henry and Portia have ever played in their lives. Henry’s speeding up the pitch and reverse passes the Quaffle to Treville, just as Portia flies straight into him, causing a collision. Henry swears loudly, and the referee calls a foul. He takes the penalty, but he’s shaking with rage and misses it by almost four whole feet.

Portia’s resultant smirk just _pisses_ him off. So when the Arrows go for the Porskoff Ploy, he flies up close to Portia and elbows her out of the way, intercepting the Quaffle from Dorothy above her.

The referee calls another foul. 

Portia growls and speeds off. She lets Dorothy take the penalty, which is wiser, because she’s not the one whose preoccupied with hating her ex lover. 

Needless to say, the entire pitch is appalled at the fact that two of England’s top Chasers are furiously targeting each other on the pitch. The game finally ends at dusk when Alex snatches the snitch from near one of the goalposts. Portia bursts into tears and dives down, her cries going unheard under the buzzing of all the Wasps fans. She runs off the moment she gets to the ground. Henry zooms after her, sprinting into the changing rooms behind her and grabbing her arm before she goes inside. 

“Portia, wait.”

“What?” Portia shouts, tears flowing down her face. Henry pulls her farther into the empty space between the changing rooms where no one goes. There’s a secret nook there that people don’t know about, and he and Portia end up inside it.

“If you’re just going to brag, Henry—”

“I’m not!”

“Then why am I here with you?” cries Portia, wiping her face furiously. “Why am I here?” 

In the dark, Henry can’t see her face, but he reaches out anyway, his heart feeling like it’s shattering.

“Because I wanted to apologise,” he starts, but Portia pushes him away.

“For going out with Gina Blackthorne? Of _all_ people, Henry, why’d you pick someone you _know_ I hated? It’s one think knowing that you’ve moved on, but quite another when you’re deliberately trying to hurt me —”

“You kissed Eva Oliveira first!” exclaims Henry. “What the fuck was I supposed to do, just sit around and wait for you to come back for me?”

Portia’s sobs stop abruptly. A horribly dense silence fills the air.

“You saw that?” she whispers.

“Everyone fucking saw that,” snarls Henry, all the anger and pain from the past few months just bursting out of him. “It was like you didn’t even fucking care, you didn’t fucking talk to me for months and months, and then you did that — for what? Because you didn’t want to accept that I’m a better Chaser than you?”

Portia laughs, a cold high laugh that teeters on the verge of a sob. “Yeah. Keep telling yourself that.”

“It’s true. You saw that today.”

Portia laughs again. “Alex is the one that got your victory,” she sneers. “We were ahead of you by sixty points. She saved your asses.”

“I still scored more goals than you in the friendly against Spain,” retorts Henry, feeling like a child as the words come out of his mouth, but he’s too furious to care. “And in Portugal. So you can just take that to _darling_ _Eva_ , and tell her - mmf!”

Portia pushes up against him and kisses him hard. Henry grabs the front of her robs and pulls her closer, fingers twining through her hair, tugging and loosening her braid to get a better grip. It’s been months since they kissed, months since they’ve touched at all, and he hasn’t realised just how much he’s missed this. 

That is, until Portia pulls away and says, “do you never _shut up_?”

Henry feels like he’s been hit in the chest with a Stunner, but he simply tilts Portia’s face up by the chin and flicks his tongue over her lower lip.

“That’s how you like me babe,” he whispers. “Don’t deny yourself what you want. You know where to find me.”

He leaves a final burning kiss on Portia’s lips and walks out of the nook, trying not to cry himself. Portia doesn’t follow.

 

** _Thirteen_ **

They start fucking again, but this time even Henry can’t call it ‘making love’. That’s definitely not what this is. This is just raw fury, even angrier than the sex they’d had when they first started training on the reserve team. And again, it’s _better_ sex, because there’s an implicit understanding that both of them have very strong feelings for one another, but they’re both so much more hurt than the last time.

This time, Portia doesn’t leave right after they hook up. She stays, holding onto Henry, who holds onto her, but neither one of them want to talk still. So they don’t.

Portia thinks about how appropriate this sort of fucking is for two people in their position. Two Chasers from rival teams having hate sex almost every other night. Perfect. Not like the stupid happy phase they had in the beginning. Clearly that was just them being dumb and not knowing any better.

Since Treville and Alex have finally moved out, Portia’s stopped having to Disillusion herself whenever she comes over, which is a huge relief for the both of them. They usually just start kissing right through the front door, but one night, Portia shows up just before midnight, looking a little less angry and a little more nervous. She’s holding a little box and Henry has to wonder what’s happening.

“It’s your birthday,” Portia whispers, just as they step over the threshold into the dimly lit front hall. The clock chime twelve. Henry chuckles and runs a hand through his hair.

“Oh. Yes. Well.”

Portia lets her robes fall to the ground. She’s wearing the kind of Muggle underwear that Henry loves so much - _lingerie_ , they call it. Wizards should have this, he thinks, as he steps closer to Portia, who smiles and holds up a finger.

“Uh uh,” she says. “Not just yet. I have something else for you.”

She opens the box. A candle lights up on top of a tiny cake that’s iced to look like a Quaffle. Henry smiles, and Portia does too.

“Come on,” she says. “Make a wish.”

Henry stares at Portia. The flickering candle makes the green of her eyes sparkle, illuminating the dusting of freckles on her nose. He takes her hands and blows out the candle without taking his eyes off her.

“Good,” whispers Portia. “Now you can have me.”

“That’s what I wished for,” he murmurs, sliding an arm around Portia’s waist. Portia drops the box and slides her arms up over Henry’s shoulders, but neither one of them care about the fate of the cake. Maybe, just maybe, tonight will be the night they finally fix things.

A sudden shriek from the dining room makes them both jump. Henry shields Portia from whoever it is, both of them turning wildly to see all seven of the Wimbourne Wasps clustered around the archway to the dining room, staring at the couple in horror.

Portia scrambles for her robes, swearing as she does. 

Treville is standing at the front of the group with a cake in her hands. “What is going on here?” she snaps, her voice a frosty bite.

Portia’s put on her robes and she moves to try to get out, but Henry clutches her bicep. A stream of unspoken things pass between them. Portia bites her lip and moves away from the door.

“How’d you get here?” asks Henry, turning back to Treville, who looks unimpressed.

“I let them in,” she says coolly. “You’ve disabled the anti-Apparition charm. I’ve put it back up. It’s there for your safety. I told you as much when I left you the house.”

“Right,” says Henry, wondering why he didn’t hear them Apparate in. “Thanks.”

“We didn’t Apparate in here, if that’s what you’re wondering,” says Treville in the same cool voice, narrowing her eyes. “We Floo-ed in. Came down while you were still in your bedroom.”

“I figured you were sleeping with someone,” says Alex squinting at Portia. “All this time… Didn’t think it would be her.”

“I should probably go,” Portia whispers.

“No,” says Henry, but Treville speaks.

“No, please leave,” she says. “But tell your team to come here at ten sharp tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”

Henry glares at Treville. “Since when do you give the orders around here?”

Treville’s eyes narrow. “This is a team matter,” she says. “As team captain, I have the authority to decide when our guests come and when they leave.” She gives Portia the coldest look that Henry’s ever seen. “And right now, I would like this house devoid of anyone we do not consider family.”

Henry lets Portia slip out behind him. He knows it’s the wisest thing to do at the moment.

 

** _Fourteen_ **

The Arrows show up at five to ten the next morning.

Henry had spent all night being grilled by his own team, and he wonders if Portia’s told the Arrows anything about what’s happened. He doesn’t need to wonder too long. When they walk in, Portia’s not in her usual position in the middle of the group, but at the back, eyes red rimmed and exhausted. She stares at Henry, who knows he must look similarly awful.

They all sit around the long dining table, Treville and Anne sitting at opposite ends. Henry and Portia sit on the same side with four chairs between them.

“Thank you for coming,” says Treville, her voice suggesting that she would rather have them all hexed to high heaven than seated at the table as they are now. From the other end, Anne gives her a hard look.

“Our pleasure,” she says, her voice spiked with venom. “So. What do you propose we do about this little… lapse in judgement that dear Henry and Portia have displayed?”

“Well of course we cannot allow it to continue,” says Treville. “What I would like to understand however, is _why_.”

Portia and Henry look at each other. “Why not?” says Henry, his mouth moving of his own accord. “I don’t see any harm in it.”

“Well yes perhaps in theory,” says Anne. “But can you honestly tell us, both of you, that you have not been a distraction to each other on the pitch?”

“Why would she be a distraction?” says Portia dully, her voice sounding like she has a head cold “I’m a professional.”

“And yet,” says Treville slowly, “your little display on the pitch at the European Cup qualifiers cost us both. It made headlines for days.” She tuts. “How terribly embarrassing it would be if this got out.”

“Well maybe it should get out,” says Henry, feeling something inside snapping. He’s tired of waiting, tired of hiding, all he wants is to have a fair shot with Portia.

“And then what?” says Anne. “What on earth makes you think the two of you could be happy if none of us approve?”

To that, Portia and Henry don’t have anything to say really. Because Treville is right. Their teams are like their family. Anne is like an older sister to Dorothy and Portia, and Treville has always had Henry’s back ever since he joined the Wasps three years ago.

If they don’t approve, then it’s going to be quite a lonely life to lead.

So they let it go. After all, it’s not like they had very much to save anyway.

 

** _Fifteen_ **

The Wasps qualify for the European Cup and Henry throws his heart into it, but no amount of training can help him deal with his heartbreak. 

He and Portia have written each other a grand total of two letters since the incident, apologising for all the fights and the terrible things they said to each other. There has been no correspondence since. In fact, Henry isn’t even sure that Portia’s _in_ Britain at the moment. 

He feels a little prickle of fear at the thought of Portia and Eva Oliviera together in Portugal, but he squashes that. This is not the time. Not at all.

The Wasps get into the finals surprising absolutely no one (because this is the third Cup in a row that this has happened). They’re playing in Germany, against the Heidelberg Harriers. Henry’s sitting on a bench in the changing room while the rest of the team are doing warmups, biting his nails.

“At the rate you’re going, you’ll have no nails left.”

Henry smiles at Connie’s voice. He hasn’t heard it in a while.

He turns around, spitting out the bit of nail he’s just torn off. “Nice to see you too,” he says.

Connie sits down next to him. “I heard about you and Portia.”

Henry balks. “What?”

“Shh, relax, she came to talk to me about it,” says Connie gently. “The public doesn’t know. She’s totally gutted by the way, if that makes you feel any better.”

“I don’t know what to do,” says Henry. “I keep thinking it’ll get better, but it doesn’t. I’m just miserable, and I miss her every day. I’ve missed her since we started fighting after we made it on the reserve team last year.” He buries his head in his hands. “Merlin, why does my life _suck_?”

“She’s here you know,” says Connie. “Here to see you play.”

Henry’s head whips up. Connie’s giving him a sympathetic smile.

“Look, whether or not you two choose to work things out is your business,” she says. “I know you are both more than capable of being professional, although you do let your tempers get the best of you sometimes.”

“Yeah…” Henry’s voice trails off and he shakes his head. “It’s just so hard.”

“Communication helps,” says Connie. “Honesty too. Not just with each other, but with yourselves as well. What are you two really angry about now? Because if it’s still about your pride, I really think you should get over yourselves, because that’s just a crap reason to not be together.”

“That’s not very Slytherin of you at all,” says Henry. Connie huffs.

“There’s a time and a place for old Salazar’s values,” she says. “This is not it.”

“It’s not just a pride thing anymore,” starts Henry. Connie interrupts.

“I think it’s high time the Wasps and the Arrows got over themselves too,” she says. “Maybe you two can start a new chapter, eh?”

Alex rushes into the changing rooms. “Henry,” she says. “Are you coming or not?”

“Go get ‘em,” says Connie, patting Henry on the shoulder as she stands. She gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. 

“Uh, thanks?” says Henry, pulling on her gloves.

“No, that’s not from me,” says Connie, giving him a knowing look. Henry pauses for a moment before shaking his head, shouldering his broom and heading outside. 

It’s a beautiful day. The sky is a clear blue, mostly cloudless, but the sun isn’t blinding, which is good for visibility. It’s made even more beautiful by the fact that Henry notices Portia sitting in the front row next to Connie. 

He spots her after he’s made his third goal and is doing a victory lap around the pitch. His eyes catch sight of Portia’s gorgeous green ones, and he skids to a stop in midair and flies back slowly. 

Portia doesn’t smile, but her eyes are warm and happy. Henry can barely believe it. The fact that she’s here at all, here all the way in Germany just to watch him play… 

She makes a little shooing motion and he flies off, heart soaring as he moves to intercept a pass from one of the Harriers’ Chasers. The wind rushes through his hair and past his ears, and he feels like he’s on top of the world.

He knows what he’s going to do. He’s going to fly right up to Portia and ask her out in front of everyone else. But it’s only gonna happen if they win, because otherwise it’ll be embarrassing.

So Henry plays what he knows is the best game of his life, scoring goal after goal after goal to loud boos and moans from the German supporters, and cheers from the substantially smaller British crowd. Perhaps spurred on by his bravado, the rest of the team performs even better. The Keeper saves almost everything that comes his way, and the Chasers and Beaters work seamlessly together. Soon, they’ve pulled ahead by a hundred points.

Henry scores a couple more goals before getting rammed in the stomach by a Bludger. Winded, he gasps and retches, his broom floating in Portia’s direction. Their eyes meet. Portia’s face betrays nothing, although her hand seems to twitch inside her pocket. Just then, Henry feels a cool sensation over his stomach and he gasps again. The nausea recedes. He can breathe again.

He straightens up on her broom, glancing at Portia again. She _winks_ and withdraws her hand from her pocket, where Portia presumes she’s carrying her wand.

Looks like the badger has a bit of the snake in her too.

Feeling miles better after the charm, Henry flies back into formation, willing Alex to catch the Snitch soon so that they can end the game. It doesn’t take her too long. Henry hears the referee blow his whistle thrice as well as the deafening and resounding boos from the crowd. His team zooms together to hug, but Henry heads in the opposite direction, right towards Portia.

He stops just in front of the stands, close enough to touch her, and the crowd gasps. Portia smiles at him, her nose crinkling and her eyes shining. Henry’s heart flutters. “Hello,” he says.

“Hey,” says Portia. “Good game.”

“Thanks,” says Henry with huge shit eating grin, forgetting everything he’s come here to tell her. He runs his fingers through his hair.

“We should celebrate your victory,” says Portia. “Maybe back at mine? Do you like tea and biscuits?”

Henry’s smile is probably bigger than his whole face, but he doesn’t care.

“I love them,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3


End file.
